


Simple Man

by Raicho



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Daryl plays the guitar, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Hurt Daryl, Insecure Daryl, Lynyrd Skynyrd, Musician Daryl, Past Child Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-29
Updated: 2016-11-29
Packaged: 2018-09-03 03:23:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,394
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8694466
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Raicho/pseuds/Raicho
Summary: It’d been a long time since his fingers played wire cords—almost a lifetime ago.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by [this TWD Kink Meme prompt](http://twd-kinkmeme.livejournal.com/5396.html?thread=7362324#t7362324). I took liberties and changed some things. Sorry.

            “Just get rid of it.”

            Daryl didn’t blame her for shutting down and bottling up every ounce of pain she must’ve been feeling. He did it, too. He just gave a single nod as he folded over the cardboard edges of the box containing the only remaining remnants of Zach’s life at the prison—three t-shirts, a vintage Farah Fawcett poster, a number of used sticky notes, some photographs of his parents and little sister, and a banged up acoustic guitar.

            He’d helped clean it out for her, not wanting the pretty blonde to shed anymore tears than necessary. But now that the deed was done, it was time to rid the cell of the kid’s memory and move on for the next potential tenant. Daryl tucked the box beneath his chin and walked away, leaving the girl to sit atop the bare mattress with a blank expression written across her face.

            It was mostly junk, knickknacks and useless shit people didn’t have the time for these days. He’d passed through the doors and took off towards the far edge of the prison yard by their makeshift fire pit. It didn’t feel right to let it linger in their home, not when Beth had been so sure of ridding the place of any evidence the kid had ever been there as part of her life. A coping mechanism, he’d guessed.

            As Daryl set the box on the ground, his eye couldn’t help but catch on the polished finish of the guitar’s headstock peeking out from under the folded cardboard.

            It’d been a long time since his fingers played wire cords—almost a lifetime ago.

            There’d been an ache that grew since the start of all this. The loss of music and the sound of silence filled his heart with something akin to dread. Song still echoed through their halls each night, but if anyone were to ask, Daryl would be the first to admit that the absence of personal performance and expression made him homesick. He’d missed it almost as much as he’d missed his brother’s full-bodied howl.

            Without a thought, Daryl reached into the box and pulled out the instrument to carry it along with him, abandoning the box and its other useless treasures. He sat along the wooden bench that lined the chain-link fences and laid the guitar softly in his lap. He’d never heard the kid play before, had no clue of how well maintained the thing was, so he set forth and began turning his fingers over the pegs and plucking at the strings to sample its tune.

            Once satisfied, a brief smile sparked across his features and he let his hands relax into position. Daryl’s fingers mindlessly plucked at the cords, reveling in the familiar sensation of bronze beneath his nails. Without thinking of who was around or what he was doing, he took a deep breath before letting his fingers drift over the cords to play a familiar rhythm. His voice was hushed as he sang to the remembered song,

_Mama told me when I was young_  
            _"Come sit beside me, my only son_  
            _And listen closely to what I say_  
            _And if you do this it'll help you some sunny day"_

            The wind was blowing through his hair and his heart was pounding. He could hear children playing in the distance, but he ignored their distraction in favor of picking at the strings with more dramatic pressure. His voice grew several decibels in intensity as he continued,

_"Oh, take your time, don't live too fast_  
            _Troubles will come and they will pass_  
            _You'll find a woman and you'll find love_  
            _And don't forget, son, there is someone up above"_

_"And be a simple kind of man_  
            _Oh, be something you love and understand_  
            _Baby be a simple kind of man_  
            _Oh, won't you do this for me, son, if you can"_

            As his fingers continued to pluck against the cords, he tilted his head up to find Carl watching him from a few feet away, short legs walking closer with each hit note. Daryl blushed, debating with himself whether or not he should quit playing before the boy got close enough to jeer at his inept talent. But before he could make up his mind and pull away from the strings, Carl was beside him in an instant, sitting with his legs crossed on the ground as he looked up to Daryl expectantly. The kid gave him a reassuring nod, helping to settle the hunter’s nerves for him to continue playing,

            _“Forget your lust for the rich man’s gold_  
            _All that you need is in your soul_  
            _And you can do this, oh baby, if you try_  
            _All that I want for you, my son, is to be satisfied”_

_“And be a simple kind of man_  
            _Oh, be something you love and understand_  
            _Baby be a simple kind of man_  
            _Oh, won’t you do this for me, son, if you can”_

            Remembering the right cords was like riding a bicycle—it was something he used to do in secret so often before the world had been consumed by death. It was a foolish hobby, something Merle would often poke fun of when he caught him in the act, but it was _his_. Daryl could see Carl smiling from beneath the shade of his oversized sheriff’s hat and he grinned. He let his hands drift as the wire hummed beneath his touch,

            _“Boy don’t you worry, you’ll find yourself_  
            _Follow your heart and nothing else_  
            _And you can do this, oh baby, if you try_  
            _All that I want for you, my son, is to be satisfied”_

_“And be a simple kind of man_  
            _Oh, be something you love and understand_  
            _Baby be a simple kind of man_  
            _Oh, won’t you do this for me, son, if you can”_

_“Baby, be a simple, really simple man_  
            _Oh, be something you love and understand"_

            As Daryl finished the tune, his finger plucking the last cord before fading out to silence, he looked up to find Carl looking at him with an awe-filled expression.

            “Daryl, that was amazing!”

            The kid was on the verge of clapping; he was grinning and blushing red almost as much as Daryl.

            “Weren’t nothin’ special,” He’d tried to shrug it off, hoping not to draw any more attention to himself.

            “Are you kidding? That was awesome!” Carl waved his hands with excitement, “Where’d you learn to do that?”

            “Dunno, jus’ picked up the habit when I was a kid,” the hunter shrugged, “Maybe ‘bout yer age."

            Embarrassed, Daryl brought his thumb up toward his mouth to nibble on its calloused edges.

            "My daddy never cared for it much," Daryl huffed, "Had to quit after a while to keep safe from his belt."

            Carl's smile fell as he realized what the hunter was alluding to. While Carl kept still and unsure, Daryl stood from his seat and walked back toward the box of items that still needed burning. He tossed the instrument into the pile and turned to grab the small container of gasoline to drizzle over the box.

            “Wait! You can’t do that!” Carl shouted as he rushed over to grab the guitar from the incoming shower of flammable liquid, “You should keep it.”

            “Ain’t got no use fer somethin’ like that.” Daryl shook his head, “Useless.” His father's voiced echoed through his head.

            Carl pouted, “No it’s not,” He held the guitar tight against his chest; “I liked it.”

            The hunter watched Carl for any sign of mockery.

            “I think everyone else would like it, too.”

            He could see in the boy’s eyes how desperately he was pleading for Daryl to reconsider his destruction of the instrument. It appeared as though Daryl wasn’t the only one who’d missed the sound of guitar strings and southern rock. Perhaps it wasn't useless after all.

            “You should play more often.”

            Daryl's heart fluttered.

            Maybe Carl needed a bit of song to fill his day. Maybe he needed it, too. He guessed it wasn’t anything to be truly ashamed of; it was just something to pass the time and make the place feel more like home—like a home he'd never had the privilege of knowing. He could do that for his family. He could do that for himself.

            He turned to Carl and quietly nodded.

            “Yeah, okay.”


End file.
